


The Magic of a Moment

by Holde_Maid



Category: Witchblade (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:24:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7014952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holde_Maid/pseuds/Holde_Maid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two trains of thought - one from Ian's, the other from Kenneth Irons' point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Closer

**Author's Note:**

> THE LEGAL STUFF  
> This is fairly ADULT material! It deals with adult themes and actions between a man and a woman. If your country's law finds you too young to read any of this, or if you are not comfortable reading it, go away. Do it for your as well as for my sake.
> 
> Disclaimer: The story as such is mine, but neither Sara nor Ian nor the Witchblade universes are;Not sure who they all belong to, but definitely not me. I only borrowed them, without any intention of infringing on those people's rights. Not making money, either.
> 
> Sort of WIP, as I might yet continue this. Finally, if you find mistakes or discrepancies, please let me know. Thanks.

Strangely, Irons did not seem to know that Ian had taken what he had no right to even touch.  
   
Perhaps it was because the Witchblade had been out of sight that night when Ian had entered Sara's apartment. The woman he both loathed and loved sometimes had been home, contrary to what he had been told. Walking toward her had felt like walking into his certain death. The feeling was familiar.  
   
He had lived.  
   
He had been blessed with this rare moment in time: For once there had been nothing between them. No issues. No threats, no needs, no questions. For once he had not had to bow his head to hide what his eyes would give away. For once he had not had the impression he had to hide it, because she resented it. Him.  
   
Nor had he had to ask her to touch him. He had lived to see her smile a genuine, patient smile, and she had put her hand on his cheek and had asked, "Why?"  
   
He had had no answer, but he had told her "Because."  
   
Even the one tear rolling down his cheek had been lucky enough to encounter her gentle fingers, as she had dried it with her thumb.  
   
Such strong arms, their muscles well-defined. When she trained, veins protruded, accentuating their sinewy shape. It had come as a suprise that these hands could be so gentle. Her arms had seemd incredibly light as they embraced him. He had waited for them to crush him, but instead Sara had stroked his hair.  
   
And she had giggled.  
   
He counted the blessings of this night like the coins in a treasure chest: The warmth of her finger-tips on his neck. The long seconds of holding still as her fingers slid over his jugular vein. Being able to meet her eyes. To smile. Being rewarded by a smile of hers. Losing his black leather gloves to her questing hands. Watching her explore his palms. Touching... Touching her, skin on skin, knowing that here, now, one was known in a way even Irons could not know him. His heart must be as glass to her, surely?  


O-- - - - - - - - - - --O

Whatever vision it was that had her gasp, she did not move to kill him. This time he could not share what she saw. He only watched her discover a scar on the inside of his wrist. He would have liked to cover it, but what right did he have to cover his shame just for his own convenience? What the lady wished to know he must not hold back.  
   
She did not ask. Instead she went on exploring his body, plucking away one piece of clothing after another... He was not quite sure whether she was taking away clothes, or rather hiding places for weaponry? She would find no weapons - he rarely used or needed any. The police could relieve you of a knife or a revolver, but your own bare hands they could not take away. Your fists, your elbows, your forehead were inconspicuos means of killing, and handy at all times.  
   
She kept rounding him, tugging on his cap here, pointing at a shoe there. He moved only to comply. It seemed no action on his part was required. Not yet. He was happy enough to keep still and enjoy the scant touch of her hands, of her body brushing past his as she rounded him.  
He had to force his breath into slowing down. His mind had jumped ahead in a most unseemly fashion. In his mind he had touched her face of his own accord, had kissed her hair without being given leave. - If only she would say the word. Until then he must hold himself impassive, must not impose...  
   
Unthinkable, this. Utterly unthinkable.  
   
And yet, somehow it happened. Accidentally, even though accidents never happened to him, under normal circumstances. It was while he was trying to get out of the pullover without getting in Sara's way as she rounded him. Somehow he touched her anyway. He pulled back the fingers whose back had stroked her hair inadvertently.  
   
"Don't stop." The unimaginable command had occurred.  
   
Had it? He could not believe his luck and, finally dropping the pullover, asked stupidly, "What do you wish me to go on with?"  
   
Sara took his hand and made him stroke her face. Automatically he pulled back like a child that has gotten too close to the fire. He shouldn't have. The look in her eyes was calculating and untrusting, but all the same she had given him permission to do the unspeakable. To touch the bearer of the Witchblade. To put his reverence into motion.  
   
His fingers were almost trembling as he reached for her. He controlled the trembling by closing his eyes and releasing his breath until he touched her hair. Those flowing chestnut strands that encased her beautiful features. How he had longed to feel their fine texture! He inhaled their scent, while his hands shyly caressed her shoulders.  
   
As soon as his fingers came into contact with her skin again, he knew he was losing control. He was all bridled feral instinct now - blind but by no means disoriented. Only his brains had stopped being any guide. He hoped, though he had no way of knowing, that it was the Witchblade that controlled him now. Whatever it was, it was stronger than he, stronger than any thought of Irons or the consequences this might have.  
   
This time his fingers were actually trembling, after all, he noticed. He was beyond caring. Besides, Sara would have noticed already. It mattered not what she thought of it, for the thought had already taken shape and she had still not rejected him.  
He wanted to thank her for that. Not being a man of many words, he began massaging her shoulders. A gratifying moan answered his ministrations.  
   
His reflexes were trained for killing - now that tender caresses were required of him, tension rendered his muscles stiff and his motions awkward. He never shivered like this when he fired a gun or cut a throat, much less when he trained. Either took far more skill and care than a caress did, and yet now he was afraid of getting it wrong. Of pushing too hard, delving too deep, sinking too far... Yes, he was afraid. And hell-bent on overcoming that fear.  
   
His lips found her nape and set a chaste kiss on the delicate skin. He neck was slender, he could have snapped it like a twig the way it was offered to him. Instead, his tongue darted out for a tiny lick. Did she like that? There was no response, so he resumed the massage and she moaned again.  
   
For a little while he continued to work knots out of her muscles, content to breathe in Sara's scent and happy to serve her in any way she chose. However, a little more initiative on his part might perhaps be welcome... He ventured another little kiss, placed on the side of her neck.  
   
Sara let her head fall back a little, offering him neck and shoulder. Her hand reached back and captured his neck. She drew him closer.  
   
"Why?" he breathed in between kisses, still afraid he might somehow inadvertently bite or rip open the timid tissue.  
   
"Because," she chuckled, while she dug her fingers into his hair.  
   
He accepted the slight pain in silence and let his hands slide around her slim waist. His fingers now rested on her taut abdomen. Muscles played beneath them as she moved her hips. She was leaning on him now, she even seemed marginally more relaxed. Not that she trusted him, but this was already more than he had expected. Clearly she wanted him to ... serve her. His right hand slipped lower, beneath the rim of her denims. He massaged her mound.  
   
The tug on his hair intensified. She cared not if she hurt him. Or perhaps she did not even know. After all, he had accepted the pain in silence. Was still doing so.  
   
He accepted too much for her taste, of course. His demureness seemed to anger her at times. In a fighter of his capabilities it was a severe character flaw, to be sure, but he could not help it. This was the way he was made. His skills, his knowledge base, his personality had all been carefully crafted. He could not escape the years of training that had occupied most of his life.  
   
In stark contrast to him, Sara had had a real childhood. She had had a real father. Real friends. Sometimes he hated her for that. Sometimes he hated the Witchblade for taking all that away from her. A distant voice wanted to whisper that it hadn't been the Blade that had robbed her of these luxuries, but he ignored it. No, Irons had looked SAD for her, hadn't he?  
   
Oh yes, he knew well enough that Irons frequently manipulated him. But there was always that irksome shadow of doubt that stopped him from acting upon his suspicions. If not that, there still was the sense of duty that kept him in check for evermore.  
   
With Sara he was a freer man. She freed him somewhat, damn her, only to release him into the service of Irons' coldly calculating mind again. Every time he had met her he could feel the burden of not being his own master more heavily and restraint and obedience became more difficult.  
   
And yet he had no choice but to serve Kenneth Irons. He was the only one that needed Ian. Sara certainly didn’t. Not even now.  
   
Not even now that his light, teasing touch had her hips roll and her breath catch.  
   
The next kiss he planted on her neck was more passionate. He wanted to make her need him, albeit fleetingly so. His lips wandered along the side of her neck. The tip of his tongue dipped into the soft hollow behind her collar-bone, his teeth gently nibbled the skin. This wasn't need yet, but with a quickening of her breath she acknowledged the force of his tenderness.  
   
   


O-- - - - - - - - - - --O

   
   
He wished he knew why Fortuna had granted him this one night. It would discolour all nights to come. It would be the sole pure joy in his life, unspoilt and secret. It would be a beacon of light and warmth in the endless icy darkness he called his life. It would be a thorn in his side, bittersweet.  
   
And yet he had no right to curse Fortuna, nor the wish to curse this night.  
It was one memory that would forever be his. His only secret treasure.  
   


O-- - - - - - - - - - --O

   
   
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 


	2. Inside

Kenneth Irons liked luxury. Not, of course, the petty standards and eccentricities that separated the nouveau riche from the masses. And even the more refined luxuries largely reserved for the aristocratic elite did not always appeal to his sophisticated tastes. But the luxury of owning Ian Nottingham, that was a different matter.  
  
Ian the servant, bodyguard, assassin. Ian the substitute son. Ian the constant challenge. Owning and ... guiding him was like a perpetual game of chess when you knew you were the better player. Of that, however, he had lately had doubts, and it had spoilt the game somewhat.  
  
Several months ago Irons had realised that Ian was carrying around the burden of a secret. He had never been good at keeping those from Irons for long. Of course not. He had been bred too carefully.  
  
This time, however, everything had been different. At first Irons had enjoyed testing his servant’s willpower. It had in fact been fun to pretend complete ignorance of Ian’s inner torment and at the same time fuelling its fire with seemingly innocent remarks.  
  
But then, in the course of weeks and months, Ian’s silence had turned from amusing to boring and finally disquieting. Perhaps Iron’s influence on him was growing weak. Such an unsavoury thought!  
  
But whatever the reason for this outrageous delay, Ian had finally decided to speak.  
And what he had to say was so shockingly unforeseen that this once Irons remained silent not to control someone else's impression of him, but just to control himself.  
He found that an eerie experience.  
  
  



End file.
